


Glasswork

by nanases_h



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Best Friends, Depression, Drug Use, Family Issues, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Halloween, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV First Person, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 15:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9908138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanases_h/pseuds/nanases_h
Summary: Alfred wishes Arthur lives like he’s made of glass. Following his best friend around the city in the early hours of morning, he realises Arthur isn’t the only one struggling with bad habits— he’s addicted to the person he’ll never want to become.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The following songs helped me develop this story. Feel free to look them up if you’re into some background music:   
> 5AM - Amber Run   
> All My Friends - Snakehips ft. Tinashe and Chance The Rapper   
> Don’t Leave - Snakehips ft. MØ

I wish Arthur will let me sleep. I wish he’ll take me by the hand, drag me home, toss our clothes on the floor, and curl up under the sheets until the sun comes up. But he has other ideas. 

Street lamps cast halos in the fog, which I’d describe as heavenly if I’m not exhausted from following Arthur around the city while he gets plastered at stupid o’clock in the morning. 

“Hey, Alfred?” He looks above his shoulder, his words coming out with mist. His nose is red. “You alright, mate?” 

I nod. 

Arthur laughs, and the next thing I know, he’s wiping my glasses. He puts them back and stares at my face to make sure they’re not slanting. “There you go. That’s better.” 

I push them against the bridge of my nose. “Thanks.” 

He pulls his hands from the warm pockets of his jersey jacket and wraps them around mine. It’s hard to hate him when he’s like that. 

“Did you enjoy the show?” 

Three parties, two fucks, and a bajillion drinks later, I forgot we went to see a band we’ve been dying to see for ages.  

“Loved it,” I say, keeping my eyes on the floor, “Felt like Sziget all over again, don’t you think?” 

He chuckles. “Well, this one was completely _mental,_ but Sziget was something _else_.” 

I feel his breath against my cheek as he leans close and wraps an arm around my waist. Summer last year, he and I went to a music festival in Budapest. There was a special kind of freedom then— it was our first time to travel outside England together. It was the kind of freedom that let us hold hands and kiss and be ourselves in public without being self-conscious. 

The festival was electric. We sang and danced and jumped in the pit with a sea of strangers. From the lights to the atmosphere, it felt fucking awesome. Damn, I still get goosebumps whenever I think about singing back with the crowd. We were with everyone, and I was with Arthur. There was one point when we said, _fuck it_ , and abandoned our tent to wander around the city. We booked a hotel room to drink and kiss and touch and lay naked, whatever felt good, until we were so hung over we missed our train to Vienna the next day. 

“Where do we go now?” I ask. 

He pulled away, stuffing his hands back to his jacket’s pockets, and walked two paces in front. “To my mate Gilbert’s.”

Of course, three parties aren’t enough. To be honest, I’d rather be at a concert where my arm will be around his shoulders, and his face next to mine. 

Arthur’s in his element walking around in a black skeleton shirt and a skull painted on his face, which are an obsession he gets from watching too many horror films. I’m pretty sure I look like an overgrown toddler beside him with my wolf hoodie — I didn’t have the time to be excited about Halloween this year. 

Half of the city’s still awake. Harley Quinns haunt the streets with their melted make up and baseball bats. A vampire awaits to suck on Fake Kylie Jenner’s neck in a café we’re passing by. 

A bitter taste spreads on my tongue as we walk past a mile-long line of people waiting to be granted a golden ticket inside a high-end club. I can already taste the bile rising up my esophagus while watching these Halloween monsters— vultures— making out, smoking, picking up fights just to party and forget this night the next day and do it all over again next week. 

If I’m thinking out loud, my friends must be giving me weird looks right now, saying, _What’s wrong with you? Aren’t you Mister People Pleaser?_ People think I love being surrounded with crowds all the time, but the truth is I hate it. Nothing can make me feel terribly alone than being with mindless, alcoholic attention seekers. They will be the downfall of the 21st century, trust me. 

What I’m saying is I love socializing— I do— but once it starts taking over your life, once you find yourself desperately blowing your money on your liquid lunch, Tequila Tuesday, or Whiskey Wednesday just to forget whatever shit you wanna forget, you’re becoming the loser here so you have to think twice… I don’t know, maybe it’s the alcohol talking, I don’t know anymore. 

We keep walking despite being surrounded by vultures, whose hungry eyes follow us, working out if they can take us as their prey. And this is why I’m staying with Arthur. He may be an obnoxious little shit, but he’s still my best friend, so I can’t let the vultures have him. 

I turn my attention back to Arthur who’s happily chattering away, whether I’m listening or not. His phone rings relentlessly inside his back pocket, but he ignores it. Sometimes, I’m not sure if it’s really him who’s acting or the powder he sniffed in the toilet. He did some at the last party, and didn’t forget to offer some as usual, but I declined. _You’re no fun_ , he said and disappeared into the bathroom.

Lately, only drugs can put him on a festive mood. See, this is the person I’m using as an example, a warning sign— this is the person I never want to become.

“…and then, they had to run off because the police caught them drinking smoking weed in the park—“ 

His phone rings again and cuts off his thrilling monologue. “Oh, bugger off!” 

“Who’s that?” I ask.

“Some guy I slept with two nights ago,” he tells his boots.

We’ve never been exclusive, really. We’ve established that a long time ago, I know, but that doesn’t mean I’m comfortable with the idea of other people taking him to bed. I don’t wanna hear about it I don’t wanna hear about it I don’t wanna hear about it—

“Why does he keep bothering you?” 

He licks his lips. “He said he likes me,” he stares at his cracked phone screen as he finally types a message. “Can’t seem to get enough of me because, y’know, I’m mental.” 

He chortles like it’s the funniest thing in the world and expects me to laugh with him. When he sees my straight face, he shrugs. “It’s what they like. They think, ‘oh yeah, I wanna be with a crazy person, they’re brilliant’. They think we’re all cliff diving, road trips at three in the morning, and all those exciting adventures. Hell, _they’re_ bloody mental.” 

The images send painful blows to my stomach. I don’t understand why Arthur would ever want to be around those people, but he seems to be pleased with the attention, so whatever.  

He pulls me inside Londis to get some canned beer. I open my mouth to protest, but he interjects, “It’s only cider.”

It’s only Tuesday night, Jesus Christ, how am I supposed to last until Friday? Late nights have been a terrifyingly familiar scene to me since university. Two years of binge drinking, and I feel like an old man already. 

I’m tired and angry, but never with Arthur. I’m angry at the system, whatever it is that glorifies the self-destructive culture— getting wasted every night, being sleepless for reasons and depending on coffee or drugs to function, leaving people homeless or penniless… I don’t wanna be those people. 

On the counter, I toss ten quid to pay for the two cans he grabbed for me, but Arthur will have none of it. I shrug and put it back to my pocket. I hear my favorite song from the speakers, one of those songs played on the show tonight. It thumps inside the walls of my chest, echoing with the images of the concert, the bouncing crowd, the dark, the lights strobing Arthur’s face. 

“How can a song about loss sound so uplifting?” I ask as we step outside. The breeze slaps my face.

Arthur plucks a cigarette stick with his lips. “It’s called ingenuity.” 

“Right.” 

He thinks about it for a moment. “Well, it’s not just about loss, really. It’s about being happy in a sad situation, and sad in a happy situation… The ups and downs, and the moments of euphoria you get.” 

The streets are getting more deserted now. We march to the park across us. Arthur lights his cigarette and takes a long drag, eyes staring at the dark distance. 

“When I die, will you play it at my funeral?”

I comb my hair back with my fingers. “No.” 

He nudges me in the rib. “What exactly is the use of you?” 

I lift the muscles that make me smile, not saying anything else. We keep walking until we find a bench to support our weight. My cheeks are frozen, and Arthur is wobbling a little bit. We could’ve went inside a restaurant to have a proper dinner, but we’re both broke especially Arthur.

“Why don’t we go home? We can skip class and get shitfaced tomorrow at lunch,” I suggest.

“I see I’ve taught you well,” Arthur replies, a flicker of pride in his face. He’s the one who taught me how to be blind drunk at midday, and smoke my first cigarette. “But I need this right now.“

I open my canned cider and take a few gulps, hearing my stomach grumbling in protest. Cider isn’t really the best peace offering for your empty stomach.  

Under the street lamp, I watch Arthur’s face discreetly. His make up is wearing off. I can see the fresh gash above his left eyebrow from playing jiu jitsu, _the sport that gives me an excuse to beat people without being jailed_ , he claims. No matter where he gets them, he’s proud of his scars and injuries— he’ll show up in class with a black eye from a bar fight the night before, and parade it around the campus as if he’s a fucking war hero.  

Beyond us, the city is slowly stirring for the next day. I glance at my watch; the Tube will start operating in half an hour.  

Arthur lies down the bench, the top of his head touching my thigh. “Hmm, this bench is not as horrid as I thought. I should probably get used to it by now.” 

“I told you, you can always stay at my place. You have the key, right?” I tell him. “That’s the use of me, dickhead.” 

He gives me a smirk that have always blown me away, either from admiration or irritation. 

“Alfred, promise me one thing: don’t let other people tell you how to live your life,” he says. It seems our conversation has taken a turn and is passing through the deep forests of his mind. “Even if it means your family disowning you and your landlady throwing you out of your apartment because you can’t make the rent. Fuck all of them! It’s your life, you’re supposed to be in control of it. Nobody else.”  

He sits down again and downs his drink out of spite. Imitating the voice of his father, he says, “ _If only you’re like Allistor_ …” His face contorts with disgust. “If I’m like him, I’ll be six feet under by now too, for fuck’s sake! They can’t expect me to be like _him_. Suppose they prefer me blown up in the desert as well? I’d like to go my way, and on my own pace, thank you very much.” 

“Arthur…” 

I don’t know what to say. Under some circumstances, I’d have thrown my arms around him and held him and told him everything’s going to be okay.  

I can only make myself look at his face. The skull that gives an illusion of bitterness and danger, as if saying _back off or you’ll die,_ is fading now, revealing his true face. Lonely and vulnerable. What little is left from his shattered pride after he was disowned. Just like the skull, the drugs are wearing off, and his problems are sinking in. Even the chemicals can’t dissolve the sadness in his eyes. 

I gaze into them— those eyes that shine green, resembling sea-glass. I miss the bright spark in them, the way they did in Budapest, or under the Cornish stars where we camped and shared our first kiss, back when he was sincerely happy. 

He blinks, tugging me back to the present. 

“I’m tired of this…” He whispers as he turns away to hide his face. I’m staring at his back, and I can imagine his muscles rippling underneath his jacket.  

His phone rings again, and he answers this time. 

“Hello?… Er, yeah… Alright, then… Fuck you!… We’re coming over… Right… I’m hanging up now, twat.” 

He faces me with that smirk again, like he turned off his sadness for another night. Something bubbles in my chest. “Off to the Land of Free Booze And Food!”

I can’t find it in myself to refuse him (but when did I ever?). The bitter taste returns in my mouth as I find too many drunk people ready to sleep the day away. Almost everyone is half-naked— the girls on their skimpy crop tops or bras, the boys shirtless— and is either passed out or rubbing against each other, showered with booze. There are people in the kiddie pool, and there are some making out in the dark corners. Only a few people are standing by the food counter. 

I tug at Arthur’s arm. “Should we head out? It looks like the party’s over.” 

He bats his eyelashes. “Alfred, mate, if you really wanna go home, then go. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.” 

_No, you won’t._

He frees himself from my grip and finds his friends at the counter. I sit on a couch on the corner to sulk while he talks and laughs and flirts with his remaining early-morning energy. I take off my ugly wolf-head hoodie to glare at it. By the time he’s tipsy, he heads towards me, carrying a plate of fish and chips and cradling a bottle of beer in his other arm like a baby. 

We pick on the food (I suddenly realize my hunger went away unnoticed), and Arthur liberates a pack of cigarettes from some poor dude’s back pocket. He offers and I take one stick. We sit like this contently for god-knows-how-long, the two of us occasionally laughing about something stupid, until he closes the distance between us and kisses me. 

His lips are chapped but soft, too familiar from all the years they’ve pressed against mine. They find their way to my chin and under my jaw as his warm hands take possession of my skin. Arthur pounces at me with the force of a lion catching its prey, cupping my face, and grinding against me. With my back against the couch, I look around, alert. Nobody seems to care if we fuck ourselves silly in a stranger’s living room. 

Arthur reaches down to unzip my jeans. He really can’t seem to close his legs tonight. 

“Arthur,” I murmur, pulling away. “Arthur, we’ve had two already.” 

His thick eyebrows knit together like I’m speaking Mandarin. “So what?” 

“I’m tired.” 

“I’ll ride you.”

“Jesus, Arthur.”

I wish he’d live like he’s made of glass sometimes. 

He sighs and stands up with nonchalance. Spotting his new prey by the kiddie pool, he hollers, “Hey, Snake!”

Before he can take another step away, I tell him, “You never really appreciate anything I’ve done for you, do you?”

He snaps his head back to my direction, and confusion is written all over his face. 

I give him everything I can, but it’s all a game to him. It seems like Arthur only uses me for pleasure, to make him feel good when he’s feeling miserable, and not really valuing our friendship.    

“I’m only good enough for fucking and passing time.” 

My voice cracks a little in the beginning, but it turned louder and stronger, enough to draw anxiety on Arthur’s face. I assume he’ll black out the next day and ask about what happened. He always forgets this kind of night, but I refuse to make this one of those nights. I want to make him _feel_ , and leave this feeling deep inside his heart so he won’t ever, ever forget. I’m doing my best for him because _I care_ , but he pushes me over the fucking edge. 

“You always play the victim as if you’ve never done anything to deserve every shit that happened!” 

The house stirs. My words might have come out louder than I wanted. People are startled. _What’s going on?_ say their faces. Some of them are too passed out to care.

“You’re right,” he replies. I’ve never wanted to wipe that annoying smirk from his lips so badly. “You’re only good for fucking and passing time. Hell, you can’t even fuck well! Why do you think I let other people take me home?”

My fists clench. _This is what he wants,_ I tell myself. He’s pushing my buttons because he wants me to give him a brand new pain, the physical kind that will leave marks and fade in time. I’m not giving in to his dare.

I take a deep breath and count to ten. “You know what? I’m going home,” I say. “I don’t care if you’re coming over or not. I’m leaving.”

* * *

As I lay in bed, I listen to the cars passing outside my apartment and watch the stray lights paint the walls of my room. I twist and turn, reach for my phone and hesitate, then bury my face on the pillow. I blink my eyes a couple of times, trying to get rid of a thought gnawing at me, which is my last thought before I fall asleep. I remember expecting a call from a hospital or the police station concerning a certain Arthur Rafael Kirkland because his family refuse to acknowledge his existence. 

The next time I open my eyes, daylight floods my bedroom, passing through the half-drawn curtains. I panic for a second, searching for my desk clock, but then I remember I don’t have class until 1pm during Wednesdays. 

“Alfred…”

I recognize the figure sitting on the edge of my bed before I can put my glasses on. I look at him the same way I did at the park last night. There are no more traces of the skull make up, and I can see his face clearly now. There’s the gash near his left eyebrow, pinkish and healing fast. Relief bursts in my chest, knowing he didn’t get his face smashed in the few hours we weren’t together. Dark circles bloom under his eyes like two-day-old bruises, and his hair tousled. He looks awfully exhausted. 

This is the person I don’t want to become.   

Perceiving my lack of response, he bites his lip and fidgets with his fingers. “I wish I hadn’t been terrible last night,” he says. “Forgive me.” 

I wish I can say I’m not drawn into bad habits, but I am. No matter how far he pushes me away, I keep gravitating to him. 

“Come here, you.” I envelope him into my arms, and he tenses for a moment, startled by the gesture. I hug him long enough for him to hold me too, and we kiss. The gentle, hesitant kind, not the hungry, aggressive one. He wraps his lips around mine, expressing what his words cannot. We let our mouths linger against each other’s skin, feeling warmth in this intimacy. We pull away and I tangle my fingers on the hair at the back of his head. I lean closer so our noses are touching, and I look into those green eyes. 

Here is the person I never want to be. Here is the person I’ve allowed myself to love.

 

**Author's Note:**

> One last song reference: ’Good Grief’ by Bastille was the song they were talking about. Arthur’s interpretation is actually Bastille’s statement about the song’s meaning. Check it out if you haven’t already! 
> 
> I’ve hardly written anything more than 500 words for months, so I badly needed the exercise (obviously, I intended to publish it for Halloween, but you know how it is). It’s supposed to focus on emotions and sensory details more than the dialogue and the plot. What do you think?


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